


it comes in slow, slow whispers

by majorrager



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Powers, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorrager/pseuds/majorrager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Max doesn't realize is that when she abandons a timeline, she also abandons a version of herself within it. A version of herself with different memories and a different life— a version of herself with no powers.  A version of herself that, once possessed, is never the same. </p><p>A version of herself that must deal with the consequences of the choices she has made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it comes in slow, slow whispers

**Author's Note:**

> An exploration of the alternate timeline seen at the end of episode 3 and beginning of episode 4. This was an idea that kind of got away from me in a lot of ways. It might be a little bit ambitious; tell me what you think. It's definitely strange, but... _Life is Strange_ and all.
> 
> This fic is about Max being stranded in the alternate timeline and what happens after. Please be advised that this fic is really dark; it functions on the theory that any timeline the 'prime' Max is not present in is fated to turn out badly. This is not a cheerful fic. Please be braced for that before reading.
> 
> I should also note that this fic has some formatting that might not work out perfectly on all screens. I ran it through some tests, and it seemed fine on everything I tested for, but here's a disclaimer for that if it doesn't work for you.

Max knows that she'll never be able to forget the look on Chloe's face, and that she'll never be able to forgive herself for causing it. She's sitting in the chair next to Chloe's bed with her thighs pressed together tightly, blinking fast against the sting of tears. She doesn't know what to say. There's nothing _to_ say, and she knows it, but she finds herself talking anyway, weakly trying to justify her answer to her best friend.  
  
She feels like a coward.  
  
"I am going to help you," she says unsteadily, "but not like that. You _have_ to... believe me, Chloe."  
  
It's a selfish thing to say. It might be the worst thing she's ever said to someone, and she hates herself for it. Chloe is dying, and Max isn't strong enough to be able to do the one thing that might help her. She _should_ be helping her. That's what all of this was _for_ in the first place.  
  
She's always letting Chloe down. She's always leaving. Always turning away. Always pulling back. Always.  
  
But she can't do this. She's had Chloe's corpse at her feet this week. She's watched blood pour out from her stomach like a faucet. She's stood there, frozen with fear, locked in time, as a train had come hurtling for her.  
  
Max is selfish and afraid and _weak_ , because she doesn't think she can bear it if she has to watch Chloe die one more time. She knows that this isn't about her, that Chloe's pain is her own, but she can hold back that feeling, and so she's not the friend that Chloe needs or deserves. Not in this timeline. Maybe not in the one she's from, either. But she has to fight for Chloe. She has to find a way. There _has_ to be something she's overlooked, some way to fix this.  
  
She needs to go back.  
  
"Why, Max?" Chloe's voice is weak, but it's cold, hurt. "You're just bailing on me like everybody else!" Her red rimmed eyes are burning a hole in the blanket over her lap, and then she jerks her head to the side, as if she can't bear to even look in Max's direction any more. "Why don't you go now? You've been wanting to since you got here, right? So go and don't come back."  
  
That hurts to hear, so much that Max can barely breathe. It feels like she's the one that's taken the bullet to the chest this time. It's worse knowing that she's going to do exactly as Chloe's said. She's going to go. She's not going to come back.  
  
Telling herself that this is for Chloe, that it's for the world, that it's for the two of them— it doesn't seem nearly good enough to justify any of this.  
  
"Chloe," she breathes. "I am _never_ leaving you again."  
  
But she can't look at her as she says it, and with Chloe looking away, the words feel completely meaningless. Max stares down into the photo album spread open on Chloe's lap. Everything's blurry.  
  
She's going back.

  
  
 

Everything is color and light and blurry photographs.  
  
The world cuts itself up and knits itself back together.

  
  
 

Max finds herself staring at the board she and Chloe had spent so much time drawing and painting on as children. There are sheets of paper pinned all over it— David's photographs of Kate, Nathan's school records, Rachel's notes to Frank, the police reports. The room is diffused in hazy light; Max can see the dust in the air. Around the board are all of the sights she's come to see as familiar during the past four days: Chloe's punk rock show posters, the graffiti on the walls, the clothes strewn everywhere.  
  
Joy spreads out from inside of her and bursts out of every pore. She's _done_ it. She's _back_. They're going to be fine. She turns on her heel and rushes at Chloe, gushing. "Chloe... You're alive. Yes!" she says in a slightly shaky voice, and, unable to contain herself, she nearly knocks Chloe from her chair, launching her arms around her.  
  
She smells like deodorant and ash and like she needs a shower, but Max buries her face in her hair, grinning, sinking into her. This is all she wants, maybe it's all she's ever wanted, and she can't believe she hadn't known it sooner. Chloe laughs and turns. "Whoa! Down, Max! You get one kiss and now you're all over me..."  
  
Max pulls away, but she can't stop touching her, reaching out to squeeze her bare shoulder, touching her on the forearm. "I'm just," she starts tremulously, beaming. "I'm just— I'm so glad you're here!"  
  
Predictably, Chloe's looking at her like she hardly recognizes her. "You... sound high. But thanks for the morning grope. Since we were up all night playing _CSI: Arcadia Bay_ , I was still spaced out here, trying to put all this info together..."  
  
Listening — or at least trying to listen — to Chloe as she sits down on the edge of her bed, Max takes in her surroundings again, overwhelmingly glad to be back. She'd made one of the biggest mistakes of her life trying to change things the way she had. She'd wanted Chloe to be happy, but that hadn't been the way to do it. Thinking about what she'd done to William makes her wish she could plead for his forgiveness. For invoking the dead, when he'd already been resting for so many years. She won't make that mistake again.  
  
Fortunately, she has a chance to make things right.  
  
Chloe has noticed her distraction. "Max, did you forget we've gone over this?" She narrows her eyes at her. "I hope you weren't messing around with time while I was sleeping..." Chloe turns back to her computer, muttering to herself.  
  
"Not any more," murmurs Max. "I'm just spaced out, too."  
  
_Welcome back to the real world, Max,_ she tells herself.  
  
She's back.

  
  
 

"Chloe," she breathes. "I am _never_ leaving you again."  
  
But she can't look at her as she says it, and with Chloe looking away, the words feel completely meaningless. Max stares down into the photo album spread open on Chloe's lap. Everything's blurry.  
  
She's going back.

  
  
 

Everything is color and light and blurry photographs.  
  
Max feels herself being torn apart, soul peeled away from the flesh.

  
  
 

"What are you waiting for?"  
  
A shock has Max settling back into her chair, rocking hard against it. The steady hum of Chloe's ventilator isn't nearly as loud as the static that's suddenly filling up her head, oozing into her brain like a thick, curdling sludge, coagulating in her thoughts.  
  
_What is happening?_  
  
She looks wildly between Chloe, who's still refusing to look at her, and the photo album, at the picture that she's supposed to use to—  
  
It's gone.  
  
It's not there any more. The page is blank where it had been, stark and cold and white and empty. There's a throbbing in Max's head and a steadily increasing sense of alarm and panic, of something being _wrong_ , so wrong, something's gone _wrong_ —  
  
A wetness slides down her upper lip and floods her mouth. Max lifts a hand to her lips and coughs a mist of blood onto it, and then she stands up so fast that her chair falls over. The noise makes Chloe look, and for a moment they stare at once another. Chloe's face is tear streaked and betrayed, but her eyes widen slightly when she looks at Max.  
  
Blood begins to drip down onto her white shirt. Max tips her chin down and watches it happen, feeling like she's detached from her own body.  
  
_Victoria's going to be upset,_ comes a thought out of nowhere, unbidden. Someone else's mind, someone else's thoughts, floating into her head. _Victoria helped you pick this out._  
  
No. Not someone else's thoughts. Her thoughts. But not her thoughts.  
  
Her world starts to go black and crimson and white, blinding white. Max grabs the railing on the side of the bed to hold herself upright. Chloe opens her mouth as if she wants to say something; she looks so weak. Max wants to go to her, hold her, tell her she's sorry. But all she does is pick up her bag off of the floor, blood splattering out of her nose onto the canvas.  
  
"I have to go," she says, and she thinks she sounds like she's about to sob.  
  
Something's gone wrong.

  
  
 

She staunches the nosebleed with her own sweater as she sits at the bus stop, wadding it up in a ball and knuckling it hard against her nostrils. Another unprompted fact floats into her head: _You borrowed this sweater from Courtney. She's probably going to be annoyed._  
  
Max takes a hysterical breath. She wants to go running back into Chloe's house where she can claw through the photo album, find another point on the timeline she can change, go back and fix all of this. But her head is throbbing, and her mind is full of shrieking sounds, like a radio that's been tuned incorrectly. She can't use her powers now. It's hurt to use them before, but right now, she's acutely aware that trying to use them might just kill her.  
  
A part of her already has an idea of what's happened, but the theory is so terrifying that Max won't draw it to the forefront of her mind, won't even acknowledge it as a possibility.  
  
There's no way she's stuck here.  
  
Max doesn't know how she manages to make it back to Blackwell in one piece, but she does. She feels like a ghost as she stumbles across the lawn and towards the dorms. She feels intangible even as people she's never spoken to before call her name— "Maxine!"  
  
( _But you have spoken to them,_ comes another thought. _Don't you remember?_ )  
  
When she gets up to the girls' dorms, she realizes that she doesn't even know if she's still in the same room. She doesn't know how much of this timeline is different. She doesn't know the first fucking thing about this world, and that's terrifying, more terrifying than even the endless tinny shriek running through her head. She stops in front of the dorm map, staring at the names and numbers. Her room in this world is across the hall— where Victoria's is, usually. Victoria's in the room across from hers. Switched.  
  
Max doesn't question it. She tries not to think of what other small details have changed. She stumbles for her room, and she almost makes it there when the door across the hall opens.  
  
"Maxine?"  
  
The voice that calls out is soft and concerned. When Max whirls towards it, the speaker gasps. Max remembers, belatedly, that there is dried blood all down the front of her shirt.  
  
Victoria rushes towards her, her arched eyebrows slanted down, her lower lip trembling. "What the fuck happened to you?!" She puts a hand against Max's arm and pulls her forward. Her other hand reaches out to cup her by the chin, and her eyes are sweeping her face like a spotlight. Max is too confused and her thoughts are too loud to do anything but stand there and allow it, as bizarre as it all is. Victoria Chase would never—

She's daydreaming when Mr. Jefferson calls on her in class. It's only at the second time he prompts her that she looks up.  
  
"Max?" Mr. Jefferson is staring at her. From the look on his face, he isn't impressed.  
  
Her face goes red. "I didn't," she starts, mumbling down at her scratched up desk, "I didn't hear the question. What was it?"  
  
A loud laugh cuts right through the air. Max doesn't have to look to know that it had come from Victoria Chase. She keeps her gaze down as Victoria says, "Because she was going through her stupid selfies! _Analog_ , really. What a joke."  
  
Max stares down at the photos spread out on her desk. She slides her notebook on top of them to cover them as her classmates begin to titter. Mr. Jefferson sighs. "There's plenty of time for that outside of class. I'd _really_ appreciate it if you tuned in on the work we're actually covering here."  
  
"Too bad," says Victoria, batting her eyelashes at her. "So sad." |  She's daydreaming when Mr. Jefferson calls on her in class. It's only at the second time he prompts her that she looks up.  
  
"Maxine?" Mr. Jefferson is staring at her. From the look on his face, he isn't impressed.  
  
Her face goes red. "I didn't," she starts, mumbling down at her scratched up desk, "I didn't hear the question. What was it?"  
  
But it's not Mr. Jefferson that answers. Victoria raises her hand, and then she starts speaking before she's even called on. "I didn't catch it either," she says sweetly, smiling at Mr. Jefferson. "You totally mumbled there. Can we all get a repeat?"  
  
Mr. Jefferson fixes Victoria with a look that clearly says that he doesn't believe her, but he relents, repeating the question at Daniel. Victoria turns to her and smiles. Max can't help but smile back. "Hey," she says under her breath. "Thanks."  
  
"Don't," says Victoria, batting her eyelashes at her. "I've got a better way for you to thank me."  
---|---  
  
The world comes back together within the next moment, knocking the wind out of her. Max is left reeling, both memories colliding distinctly in her head. Both of them feel so real. Both of them _are_ real.  
  
"Maxine?" Victoria looks afraid with worry, reaching out to put an arm around her shoulders. "Are you about to have a fucking stroke or what? Should I take you to the nurse?"  
  
"No," rasps Max, the only thing she can think of to say. She tries to tug back. "I'm _fine_ , I—"  
  
"Come on," says Victoria firmly. "Get inside." She's reaching out for Victoria's— no, Max's door. She ushers Max inside.  
  
The room is surreal; it's only partially recognizable. Max sees her teddy bear and her lights and all of her photographs on the wall. She sees her guitar and her clothes and Lisa and the rug she'd picked out with her mother on the floor. It's all vaguely comforting in a disorienting, alien way.  
  
But there are so many things about this room and the girl living in it that she doesn't recognize at all. There aren't any notes tacked to the wall about quantum physics and wormholes and the butterfly effect. There's no blood red paint staining the wall and all of her photographs. But it's not the things that are missing that are most jarring: it's the things that are new. Posters of bands she'd never listen to. Clothes she'd never wear. Bottles of liquor hidden poorly beneath a pile of dirty laundry. A heavy digital camera that definitely doesn't belong to her, at least not in her own timeline. And pinned up above her desk: pictures of herself mugging for the camera with Nathan Prescott and the rest of the Vortex Club.  
  
Victoria is trying to make her sit on the couch, but Max is resisting, reaching to push away at this Victoria Chase she doesn't recognize at all. Her thoughts feel pulled apart like cotton wool, shredded into wisps and fibers.  
  
_Kate's rabbit,_ she thinks, distantly, as she stands. _I need to feed Alice._  
  
"Maxine, sit _down_ ," says Victoria sharply. "No wonder you were acting so weird yesterday. _Everyone_ was worried about you. For a good reason, apparently."  
  
"Alice," murmurs Max, moving past her to crouch at the spot on the floor where the cage—  
  
Where is the cage?  
  
She stares at the spot where it should be, and then she looks back over her shoulder, sweeps her eyes around the room, tries to remember if, in her foggy head, she's forgotten where she put it. But it's not here. It's just not here.  
  
_Kate_ , thinks Max. _What happened to Kate?_  
  
There are steps coming up behind her. A gentle hand on her shoulder. Victoria saying, "Come lay down," very softly.  
  
"Kate," Max whispers, even as she allows Victoria to pull her over to the bed, her arms wrapping tight around her waist, pulling her down. Victoria smells like nail lacquer and lavender and lipstick, and she drapes her body around Max's like they've done it before, like she knows this game, like they play it all the time together.  
  
_You do_ , says the voice in Max's head, and maybe it's muscle memory in this body, because she's pressing herself back against Victoria, their legs winding together, thighs locking, and even though she feels like she's never done this before, not with _anyone_ , least of all Victoria Chase, it feels familiar. _Victoria_ feels familiar, even the way she smiles at Max in an open, vulnerable way she's never seen before. Her fingers, reaching to clasp at Max's, slide into hers like they're a puzzle that just needs to be snapped back together.  
  
She doesn't know what's happening. She's Max. She's Maxine. She's herself.  
  
She's no one.

  
  
 

She dreams about Chloe. Chloe with her hair like a blue flame. Chloe's sallow, sickly face. Chloe in the driver's seat. Chloe in her wheelchair. Chloe hysterical with laughter at the diner. Chloe barely managing a single breath through the ventilator.  
  
Chloe. Chloe. Chloe.

  
  
 

Victoria wakes her up an hour later with cautious fingertips brushing her bangs off of her forehead. Max flinches. Victoria looks hurt, but she pulls away.  
  
"You feeling okay?" she asks carefully.  
  
Max doesn't need to reassess herself to know that she's not. There's still a constant reverberation in her head, sharp and awful, like a microphone malfunctioning. Black bursts in her vision, spreading out over Victoria's face like spilled ink. But she says, "Yeah."  
  
"So, here's the deal," says Victoria, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and carefully rearranging her sweater. "Winner's announced tonight. Last day to submit. I know how important this is for you, but you don't need to go to class. In fact, you probably shouldn't. You kind of look awful, no offense. I can submit your photo for you. Where's it at?" She waves her perfectly manicured fingers expectantly, looking straight at her.  
  
_This is important to me?_ is all Max can think, staring at Victoria. _The Everyday Heroes contest...? I wanted to enter? I—_

Max has been thinking about the contest ever since it was announced, and at this point, she's certain that she's not going to wind up entering.  
  
It's not that she's afraid of losing: she's pretty sure she _would_. And it's not that she doesn't know what to submit. She already has a photo in mind.  
  
But she's sure that it doesn't matter. That it's not worth the effort. Ever since arriving at Blackwell, Max has been steeped in her own mundanity. She'd grown up thinking that she was special, that she was unique, that she had a talent, a _gift_. But this is a school full of gifted people just like her, where motivation is hard to come by, and a lot of them have more vision and drive and confidence— three things she isn't sure she has.  
  
So when Alyssa gives her a half-smile and asks, "So, are you entering?" Max says, "No." |  Maxine has been thinking about the contest ever since it was announced, and at this point, she's certain that she's going to win it.  
  
It's not that she's arrogant: it's just that she's pretty sure she's got exactly what Mr. Jefferson is looking for. And it's not that she's going to have to bribe her way into winning. She already has a photo in mind.  
  
She's sure that the moment he sees it, he'll have no choice but to pick her. Ever since arriving at Blackwell, Maxine's convictions as an artist have just grown stronger than ever. She'd grown up thinking that she was special, that she was unique, that she had a talent, a _gift_. And in this school full of gifted people just like her, she's found herself more motivated and determined than ever to stand out. She has vision and drive, and she's working on confidence, but she's getting there.  
  
So when Taylor gives her a half-smile and asks, "So, are you entering?" Maxine says, "I'm _winning_."  
---|---  
  
When the memories snap back to ricochet through her head, battling one another for a place in her mind, Max is left with that stifling feeling again, like it's hard to breathe. Her hands lift to her head to cradle it. Her heart is pounding hard, but not as much as her skull seems to be. She presses her fingers into her temples.  
  
Victoria's reaching out to touch her shoulder with one hand, fishing out her cell phone with the other. She looks agonized. "Is it your head? I'm going to text Nathan. Get you on Oxy, or something. But I think you should really see a _doctor_ , Max."  
  
"No," says Max suddenly, thinking about Kate, about Alice, about the chair in Mr. Jefferson's classroom that, at this point, might or might not be empty. She rubs her head and picks her bag up off of the floor, avoiding Victoria's gaze as she says, "I'll hand it in myself."  
  
"You seriously shouldn't be going anywhere," says Victoria. Her voice is strained, and her lips are pressed in a thin line. "You're still covered in blood."  
  
Max looks down at herself, then turns towards her closet, robotically. She doesn't recognize half the things in it. She picks out the first top she sees, a red shirt with a deep collar, and the closest thing she can find to her comforting grey hoodie, a black cardigan. She turns to Victoria, waiting for her to excuse herself so that she can change. Victoria's not making any move to leave, looking at her uncomprehendingly.  
  
"Can I," starts Max, holding the clothes up limply. "Do you think I could—"  
  
Victoria gives her a strange look, and Max's head tells her, or maybe she remembers, _Why would you ask her to leave? She's seen you before. She's seen you._  
  
The implications of that come easily. There had been something too intimate about the way Victoria had pressed herself to her. Something too familiar about the texts in her phone. Something heavy in the way Victoria looks at her, even now.  
  
She can't think about this. She doesn't have time to think about this.  
  
Max turns away to change. The sharp sounds in her head cleave her brain apart.

  
  
 

The headache begins to abate as she makes her way across campus to Mr. Jefferson's class with Victoria at her elbow, chattering worriedly. Everything she says goes in one ear and out the other. Victoria says something about Nathan and pain meds and Max just finds herself nodding. The throbbing in her temples slows, and the metallic feedback begins to pop with static. As she settles into her seat in Mr. Jefferson's class, right next to Victoria where she knows Taylor is supposed to be sitting ( _Supposed to_ , says her head, _but not here_ ), the noise has become a dull hum.  
  
She looks across the room. She's not sure if she's surprised or not when she sees that Kate's seat is empty. It just makes her even more uneasy.  
  
Mr. Jefferson smiles at her, right at her, when he walks in, and when he speaks, it's his voice that cuts through to her clearer than anything else has today. That's startling enough that Max can't do anything but zero right in on it. Listening to him is a soothing relief, quieting the pain in the back of her skull.  
  
"Today's your last chance to enter the Everyday Heroes contest," he says, walking slowly around the room. "And by that I mean this class. After we let out for the day, that's it. Hard deadline. And as you all know, I'll be at the End of the World party tonight to announce the winner." He smiles easy, looking at each of the students in turn. His gaze settles and lingers on Max. "So if any of you still have a photo to hand in, you know what to do," he says. His tone is very deliberate.  
  
Max looks down at her desk and fingers the photo she intends to submit. For whatever reason, it's almost identical to the one she'd been considering back in her own timeline ( _Your own timeline? Isn't this your timeline?_ ), and she's not any more proud of it in this one than she'd been in the other. But it had been carefully pressed into a folder marked _Contest_ in her own handwriting, and she'd found it in her bag. This is definitely the one, and she's too tired to care about trying to change it. Her other self had wanted to win this contest pretty badly. Victoria is expecting her to enter, and so is Mr. Jefferson. It's bizarre.  
  
But she has nothing to lose by entering. She's got her own timeline to return to. She'll probably be there by the end of the day. She's sure of it.  
  
( _Are you really?_ )  
  
Mr. Jefferson segues into that day's lecture, and Max scrolls through her phone, checking the messages, trying to identify the nature of her relationships in this world. Victoria's texts are dotted with hearts and emojis, and reading through them backwards is like following a story of teen infatuation from a young adult novel. She doesn't recognize her voice in any of the sent messages. This Max — Maxine — seems blunter and colder, somehow, and that aspect of her just seems to make everyone hungry for her attention. Even Nathan's friendly with her, texting her just to ask her what's up, sending her stupid memes long past midnight. She catches only slivers and slices of what her life here has been like: a mention of some incident here, planning for a party there. Max comes away thinking that she doesn't recognize herself.  
  
Her journal yields a similar story, and little more detail. The book is as familiar and worn as ever, but the contents are sparse, the words stripped of emotion. One of Max's favorite things to do is write in her journal, sinking herself into the opportunity to purge everything that has been crowding her mind during the day. This version of herself seems to be above that, or maybe she's got less time in general. There are entire weeks between entries. Blank spots that Max doesn't know how to fill.  
  
She wraps her arms around herself and keeps her head down until the bell sounds off. Everyone gets up immediately. Max stays where she is, looking down at the folder. She registers Victoria out of the corner of her eye brushing close, a hand lighting on her shoulder. _She must think I'm worried about the contest,_ Max realizes.  
  
"Good luck," says Victoria warmly, and she pulls away and leaves the classroom. Max watches her go before sliding the photo out of the folder.  
  
When she looks up towards the desk, Mr. Jefferson is already looking back at her, waiting. She drags her feet as she crosses the room. By the time she's next to his desk, somehow still upright on legs that threaten to collapse beneath her, the classroom is empty.  
  
She holds her photo out. "Here it is," she says blankly. She hopes he doesn't ask what it's supposed to represent. She knows what this photo meant to her in her world, but she doesn't know what it means to Maxine here.

The photo is of her with her back to the camera, but the focus isn't on her. It's on the background. On her photo wall. It's a well composed shot, the colors vivid, each photograph a dark blotch of color against the white, her silhouette framed perfectly centered.  
  
It's a risk to submit it. She knows that. There's nothing in the contest entry rules that actually prohibits self portraits, she knows that— she's pored over the specifications again and again to be sure. But Max knows that there's something distinctly presumptuous, something arrogant, about it. After all, who is she? What makes her a hero?  
  
Her justifications seem childish and silly when she thinks about them. It's not that she thinks of herself as a hero. It's about the photographs. It's about what they represent. It's about moments, about the people in them. Little pieces of time, each one a part of someone they've given away. That seems heroic to Max. At least, it's poetic.  
  
But it sounds so stupid even in her own head that she knows that she doesn't have a chance at explaining it aloud. Who is she kidding? It's just going to give Victoria Chase another reason to think that she's completely shallow and self-absorbed. | The photo is of her photo wall, but the focus isn't on it. It's on the foreground. On her body silhouetted against it. It's a well composed shot, the colors vivid, her posture straight and confident, the photos spread out before her in a contrasting halo.  
  
It's a risk to submit it. She knows that. There's nothing in the contest entry rules that actually prohibits self portraits, she knows that— she's pored over the specifications again and again to be sure. And she has other photos she could submit, ones that maybe fit the theme better, but this one, she's sure, is the winner.  
  
Her justifications make perfect sense when she thinks about them. She's young. She's focused. She's ready to pursue her goals, her future, her visions. She knows that making it as an artist is a struggle; Mr. Jefferson would get that more than anyone. That seems heroic to Maxine. At least, it's poetic.  
  
She's looking forward to talking with Mr. Jefferson about it, about what it means to make personal sacrifices to give something back to the world. Art is about making bold moves. This is a bold one, and she knows it, but she's never felt more sure about anything before.  
---|---  
  
Mr. Jefferson is saying something, but Max doesn't comprehend a word. She's locked where she is, stunned by the memories, the changes in them. She wishes she could recognize herself again.  
  
"It's a stunning shot," says Mr. Jefferson. "I think I get what you're trying to do here... And I've got to say I'm impressed."  
  
_You've been waiting for so long to hear this kind of praise,_ she hears in her head. _So, so long._  
  
But this isn't meant for her. It's for Maxine. She stands there nodding vaguely, feeling like her skull is about to crack in two. Mr. Jefferson moves closer. It's subtle.  
  
"I'm glad," he murmurs. He's so close that she can smell whatever cologne he's wearing. A prickling feeling rolls through her; she's not sure if she likes it. She might have, on any day but today. Today, she just feels like he's too close and too personal. "I'm really glad you've chosen to enter," he continues. "It's difficult. Just putting yourself out there can be terrifying, especially when you're just starting out. I think the fear of rejection really holds a lot of people back. But you've conquered that fear just by entering."  
  
Mr. Jefferson has the photo clasped carefully between two fingers, like he's trying to be certain that he doesn't drop it. He lowers it to the desk and lets it rest where the light can catch it. Max doesn't know what to say. She has a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Would this have happened if she'd entered the contest in her own timeline, as well? Would he have praised her like this? Would he have looked at her the way he is now, like she's a genius?  
  
Why doesn't it feel good?  
  
His voice has soothed the grinding and crashing in her head, sweeping away all the dust, and in these moments of clarity, Max considers something:  
  
_I should change my mind._  
  
Maxine had wanted this. But she's not ( _she is_ ) Maxine. She'd decided not to enter. She doesn't feel right about it. Not when she's a stranger to this world. This victory— it's not hers.  
  
_I'm going to pull it back._  
  
The black stains in her vision have faded, and the noise is quiet behind her eyes. Now is the perfect time to try her rewind again, to dip her toes back into the timestream. It should be fine. She'd just needed some rest. It's just a small rewind.  
  
Max focuses on Mr. Jefferson, and then she lifts her arm. She spreads her fingers. She _pulls_.  
  
It pulls back.  
  
She anticipates a world in monochrome, flickering and jumping, frozen, ready for her to unpause. She expects to stand among it, alive and conscious, as everything around her undoes itself. At the very least, she foresees pain, a splitting headache, unconsciousness. Something to tell her that she's not ready to use it again yet.  
  
She gets nothing, standing there with her hand in the air, straining so hard that she thinks she's about to go cross-eyed. Her hand starts to shake, a tremor that begins at her fingertips and shoots down her spine. Mr. Jefferson is looking at her like he doesn't know what to make of her.  
  
"Maxine?" he asks, his eyes narrowing at her.  
  
_No—_  
  
Twisting her hand, Max tries again, tries to pull the moment back, unravel it, undo it all. Instead, what she gets is Mr. Jefferson taking a step towards her, concerned.  
  
"Maxine," he starts, "your nose—"  
  
She tastes the blood running into her mouth before she feels it. And then she knows.  
  
_I broke it._ But maybe, more than that: _It's gone._  
  
When she bursts out through the classroom door, she nearly knocks Victoria right to the ground. Her ( _rival? girlfriend?_ ) goes staggering back, yelping, and Max ( _Maxine_ ) can hear her startled voice calling after her, desperate: "Hey, wait!" But she's fast, lighter than air, as intangible and unquantifiable as the seconds that are passing by, the ones she no longer has control over. She runs down the hallway with Victoria's fading footsteps at her back, with her classmates turning towards her in confusion and concern as she streaks past them. She flees out of the back doors and sets off running across the grounds, past the statue, past Brooke Scott with her drone, past Hayden Jones, who calls out to her.  
  
She keeps running. She keeps trying to rewind, hands out in front of her like she's running for a goal, like she's just trying to _make_ it there, like she's going to touch it once she gets there and pass it on to another person to be burdened by. She moves forward in time, but that's all that happens.  
  
_It's gone._  
  
Max slows only when she gets back to the dorms, staggering blindly towards them. _Rewind_ , she's thinking dizzily, over and over. _I have to rewind. I have to rewind. I have to—_  
  
There are candles set up at the foot of the dormitory stairs. Flowers. A cross. She comes to a stop in front of them, blood raining down her chin, and stares.  
  
_KATE_ is written in the middle of the poster board that is the centerpiece. The votive candles surrounding it have all gone out. _You will live in our hearts forever_ , says the poster board. _You'll be missed,_ it says. _Goodbye,_ it says. Kate's face looks out at her from a portrait sealed neatly within a wooden frame.  
  
But she saved her. She _saved_ her. She saved Kate, she knows it, Kate's _fine_ , she's—  
  
Everything comes out of her at once. Behind her, there's a voice she doesn't know if she recognizes. "Hey... Shit, you okay?"  
  
"Kate," Max whispers.  
  
She collapses.

  
  
 

The room she wakes up in is very white and very empty. Her mind howls like a storm, and the metallic grinding in her head won't stop. It hurts so badly that Max doesn't know how to orient herself at first, can't tell if she's facing up or down or sideways. Eventually she decides that she's laying on something soft. She lifts a hand up to her face and rubs a finger beneath her nose. A rusty brown crust comes off against her hand.  
  
Max sits up and looks around. She's never been in the nurse's office before, but she's pretty sure that's what this is. She cradles her head in her hands and tries to think.  
  
_Kate..._  
  
She doesn't want to think about it, because when she does, she wants to flee deep into the recesses of her own mind and never come back. But she doesn't have to, because someone enters the room and distracts her. Max expects it to be a member of faculty. What she gets is Nathan Prescott.  
  
He's standing there, staring at her uneasily, wearing the blue jacket she remembers from yesterday. She'd looked only briefly at her history of text messages from him in her phone, and, based on the context clues, it's not hard to figure out that somehow, for some reason, he is her friend in this timeline. How, exactly, she's not sure. But he is. Max sits there, very stiff, staring at him. She feels helpless, frozen, stuck in the bed. She's afraid of him, afraid of who he might be in this timeline. Afraid that he might be the exact same Nathan as the one in her own timeline.  
  
There's so much she still needs to learn about him. She and Chloe were supposed to unlock it all today.  
  
Nathan doesn't seem to be aware of any of Max's fear or wariness. "Pretty much thought you were dead. It took like three of us to get you here." Nathan's scrubbing a hand at his temple, running it up through his hair. "I got a text from Victoria earlier today. She says you've been fucked up all morning. What the hell's going on?"  
  
Her jaw clamps shut, some kind of psychosomatic response to hearing concern come out of his mouth directed at her. She thinks about Kate. She thinks about Nathan, and about Victoria, and about how she's a member of the Vortex Club here.  
  
The frequency running through her head turns explosive. Max rocks forward in pain.  
  
"Do you want me to get the nurse?" Nathan asks, his voice pitching down. Softer. She's never heard him sound like that before.  
  
Max looks at him sideways, staring at him through her fingers. He's dangerous. She can't discredit what she knows about him just because they're friends in this timeline. So she asks, very quietly and hoarsely: "Kate?"  
  
Nathan's chin dips down. He stares at the floor for a moment, and then he says, "What about her?" He's not quite looking at her.  
  
That tells her everything she needs to know. There's something in the back of her head saying _There's more, there's more,_ but she's afraid of it, scared of what else the voice might have to say. She shrinks back and draws her knees to her chest.  
  
"It's my fault," Max whispers.  
  
" _No_ ," says Nathan vehemently. He doesn't know what's in her head, can't know why she's blaming herself, but he's defensive, anyway. "No, it's fucking not. That's _all_ on _her_. Whatever we did, that's— you _know_ it's not on us. Fuck. I'm sick of talking about this to everyone. You know Wells was on my ass this morning again, too?"  
  
Max stares at him blankly. Nothing of what he's saying is making much sense. _Whatever we did_ , and _it's not on us_.  
  
"Us?" she says finally.  
  
She thinks of Kate all alone up on that roof. How she'd been standing with the tips of her sneakers at the edge of it, so small and so alone. How Max hadn't known how much she was shaking until she'd gotten up there and seen her, watched the way her knees knocked together. The sight of the rain plastering Kate's hair to her face, turning her skin pale, darkening the redness beneath her eyes. The way Kate's life had felt like such a fragile thing up there, and how she'd never felt more scared in her life, or more relieved when she'd come down.  
  
Had she tried, in this world? Had she done anything to save her? The Vortex Club had disseminated the video. The Vortex Club...  
  
"Look," Nathan says dismissively, and he lifts a hand. "We're not going to get in trouble."  
  
And suddenly Max remembers.

Max has heard a lot about the Vortex Club parties, although she has no desire to ever attend one. On Friday, October 4th, she gets herself through her classes and ignores Dana's attempts at convincing her to attend. She spends that evening in her dorm room, scrolling half heartedly through her Facebook as photos from the party show up on her feed in real time, an as-it's-happening playback of what's going on in the gymnasium. Everyone looks sweaty and completely hammered. After fifteen minutes of cyber stalking, Max gets sick of it and spends the rest of the night reading _The October Country_.  
  
The next morning is a beautiful Saturday, and she's trying to make her mind up about what to do with her day as she stands over the sink in the shared washroom. A couple of girls walk in, their makeup smeared beneath their eyes, their hair tangled. Max figures they were at the party yesterday, and she confirms herself as right when they start talking about it right away.  
  
"I hear someone got _totally_ fucked up last night. People are saying there's a video," says one of the girls with a wild, excited laugh.  
  
"Gross! Like, don't go to a party if you can't keep your shit together, you know? How fucking embarrassing," says the other, leaning over the sink to lather up her hands.  
  
"I hear the video gets _real_ sloppy." There's glee in the girl's voice as she runs a hairbrush through her hair. Max recoils. The movement gets her attention, and she calls over to her. "Hey, you know where we could watch that thing?"  
  
_Keep your mouth shut,_ says part of Max, but she's never been very good at that. "Uh, no," she says, irritated. "And I don't plan on finding out. That's _sick_. I'm not looking that up."  
  
The girls exchange looks with one another, then look towards Max with derision. Max grabs her toothbrush, immediately regretting her tone. She's only been at Blackwell for a month. Maybe it's best if she doesn't talk about things that have nothing to do with her. She shrinks back from their stares and heads back down the hall to her room, but she can't shake the upset feeling. |  Maxine has come to embrace the Vortex Club parties, eager to make the most of her new position in a very exclusive group. On Friday, October 4th, she's buzzing with energy, impatient all throughout her classes and just ready for the day to end so that she can go. That evening, she and Victoria help one another pick outfits out, and they show up late after a considerable distraction with one another. The party is wilder than any one before it, even her own birthday (she still thinks the two day hangover was worth it). It's about halfway through the night that Victoria alerts her to a dazed girl wedged between two members of the football team.  
  
"Holy shit," hisses Victoria, grabbing hard onto Maxine's arm, her eyes bright. "Is that who I think it is?"  
  
Maxine is pretty faded at this point, and so is Victoria, but she's pretty sure that neither of them are seeing things. "That's totally that Kate girl, right? Abstinence club Kate?"  
  
Victoria turns to her, her full lips spreading in the devious way that Maxine's come to adore. "Yeah," she says excitedly. They watch, clutching at one another, as Kate leans forward into an aggressive kiss initiated by the guy to her right. The one on her left is running his hands over her thighs. Victoria bursts out laughing. "Oh my god! What a hypocritical bitch! Hey, where's my phone? This is going to be so fucking funny—"  
  
Maxine laughs, too, because she's drunk and high and she's with her incredibly cool, sharp girlfriend, and none of this seems all that bad. It's just for fun. No harm done. She came to Blackwell to have experiences like this— to break away from her parents and live like she's young and invincible.  
  
So it's easy to ignore the guilt that sours her stomach as Victoria makes the recording. It's not so easy the next morning as they lay together in Victoria's bed and watch the YouTube upload bar fill to 100%, with her head pounding and her thoughts cleared, but she forces the feeling down.  
  
No harm done, right?  
---|---  
  
"So, are you coming tonight?" Nathan is asking her when Max comes tearing free of the memories.  
  
_Your fault,_ her head tells her. She looks up at Nathan, sightless.  
  
"The party," says Nathan, as if he thinks she needs reminding. "As of this morning, it's still on. I busted my fucking ass in front of Wells for it. Felt totally stupid. So I'm counting on you showing. It had to be worth something."  
  
_Your fault._  
  
Max tries to stand from the bed, grabbing for her bag and her sweater. Nathan leans back a little. "You want me to get the nurse or what?"  
  
_My fault._  
  
She turns towards him, looking into his face, trying to decide if his expression of concern is really as empty as the eyes behind his mask. "No."  
  
"What?" Nathan looks at her like he doesn't understand her answer.  
  
"No, I'm not," says Max, louder, and her voice cracks, lifts, until she's screaming: "No fucking way am I going to that party! Get out of my _way_ , Nathan!" She doesn't even recognize the sound of her own voice. It's someone else screaming. Someone else sobbing. She shoves past him and bolts past the nurse's desk and right out of the doors.  
  
She's done a lot of running today. But not enough to get away from any of this.  
  
Her phone goes off in an explosion of texts — all Victoria, demanding to know where she is and why she'd just run off on Nathan — which reminds her that she can call someone. Anyone. Her mother. Chloe? No, not Chloe; she'll have to beg her forgiveness in person, and she can't burden her any further. _Warren_. Warren, maybe—  
  
She finds herself in the parking lot, a fact she only registers because the toe of her sneaker has just kicked something solid. Max looks down. A dead squirrel rests at her feet. She expects to see a broken little body, blood, decay. But it's as whole as if it were sleeping.  
  
It's all too much, suddenly. She sits on the curb, right in front of the squirrel, and puts her face in her hands and tries to think of what to do. When she peeks up between her fingers, she sees Mr. Jefferson heading for his car. He's walking with purpose, straight backed. She prays that he doesn't notice her, lest he question her strange behavior earlier. For the first time today, something goes right when he doesn't, getting into his car and leaving Max completely alone in the lot.  
  
Wiping her face with a tissue from her bag, she tries to think of what she knows and what she doesn't. All of the information she and Chloe had compiled is back in Chloe's room, in a completely different timeline— in a completely different universe. There's no way for her to access it. And Kate... Kate's not around ( _my fault, my fault_ ) to ask anything of. She's going to have to start over. She's going to have to— she'll have to—  
  
_David!_  
  
The thought pierces her head so suddenly and clearly that she gasps aloud, the breath rushing out of her shrilly. David's monitoring. His notes. All the meticulous files he's kept on Rachel. On Nathan. She's _seen_ David here. She knows it. She'd looked him right in the eyes yesterday as she'd boarded the bus. She whips her phone out of her bag and checks the time. _5:14,_ she thinks. _I still have time to catch the bus!_  
  
Max gets to her feet and hurries, terrified that she's going to miss it. She indulges in a moment of relief when she sees other students hovering around waiting for it, but it bursts when the bus actually pulls up. She hovers back as everyone climbs aboard and gets on last.  
  
There's David Madsen in the driver's seat. He's in uniform, as usual, but it's not the uniform of the head of security. Max stares at him. She doesn't know what she's hoping for. A look of recognition, maybe, but she doesn't get one. David just gives a jerk of his head, indicating that he's waiting for her to sit. She does, deciding that she'll wait until they reach the end of the route, when no one else is on board, to talk to him.  
  
She peels apart the pages of her journal and attempts to organize her thoughts on paper: _I think I've lost my powers. I think I'm part of the reason Kate Marsh is dead. I don't know what's happened to my world. I'm remembering things about this one. I'm scared._ She tries to jot down the things that keep happening in her head: _Memories that aren't mine. Nosebleeds. Black spots. Noise. Lots of noise. It doesn't stop._  
  
When the bus rolls by the beach, she pauses her writing and looks up. The dead whales from yesterday are still there. There's a great number of people in orange safety vests. Maintenance crew, probably sent to figure out what to do with the mess.  
  
As she watches, a seagull drops from the sky. Feeling nauseous, Max closes her journal.  
  
The end of the route is at one far end of the Bay, long past the residential area where most of the students get off, past the shops on the fringe of town where the remaining passengers leave. Max waits to stand up when the bus comes to a rumbling stop near the depot. David spots her in the rear view mirror, and at first he is startled, but that quickly turns to irritation.  
  
"You fall asleep?" he barks at her. "It's forty-five minutes 'til I turn this thing back around, so you're gonna have to wait or call a cab. I'm taking my break for dinner."  
  
"No!" Max scrambles up the aisle, feeling a sense of vertigo from the sounds echoing in her skull. "I—" She catches herself against one of the seats. She has to be careful. She can't fuck this up. "I wanted to talk to you."  
  
David narrows his eyes at her in suspicion. It's clear that he has no idea who the hell she is, and no reason to want to talk to her. He shuts off the engine and begins to climb out. "What the hell about?" he asks finally, his arms folded across his chest as he stands on the sidewalk waiting for her to get out.  
  
Max stumbles down the steps and clasps her hands together. "I wanted to talk to you about— about—" Her head is starting to hurt again. "About Rachel Amber."  
  
" _Who?_ " David looks impatient. Max doesn't know what to make of that answer. She stares at his face and tries to gauge it for sincerity. How can he not know...?  
  
"She was a student," begins Max, confused, but the realization is beginning to slowly seep into her, liquidizing her bones. "At Blackwell. She's missing. She was... You followed her..."  
  
"I _what?_ " David barks, and now he just looks angry. His face begins to color beneath his mustache, and his shoulders stiffen and rise. " _Listen_ here! I don't know what you're trying to get at, but _don't_ you dare think you're the first little Blackwell shit who thinks it's funny to try to screw around with a goddamn veteran!"  
  
Max takes a step back, mired instantly in regret. "I didn't— I really didn't mean to—"  
  
"Get the hell out of here!" David yells. He shoves a finger in her face, gesturing hard. He's so furious that it sparks off of him, making Max want to turn tail like a frightened deer. "Show some _respect_! You ought to be ashamed!"  
  
She is. But not for the reasons he thinks. Max stands there, silent with horror, as he turns his back on her and stomps away. She doesn't move until she watches him disappear into the depot, and then she turns, numbly, towards the street.  
  
The sun is on its way down. It's so bright that as it reflects off of the ocean, Max is blinded. She stands there staring into the brilliant golds and whites, and her eyes start to burn the way her head is burning.  
  
Her phone goes off again. She looks down at it. She has eight unread messages from Victoria and two missed calls.  
  
_Why did you go running like that? tell me!!!! Did he not like ur photo? I'm here to talk whenever you need me!_  
_princess maxine?_  
_Holy shit Nathan said he had to take u to the nurse's office are you okay????_  
_I'm so fucking worried about u Max plz answer_  
_nathan said you went running._  
_Max :( you know you can talk to me right_  
_maybe u think this is annoying but I'm not letting up until you let me know youre ok. Just type some gibberish or something_  
_You don't need to go to the party tonight if u don't feel well but PLEASE just talk to me_  
  
She really doesn't want to go to the party. She doesn't want to see Victoria, or Nathan. She doesn't want to look into their eyes, or anyone else's. She doesn't want to be the person she is in this timeline, a careless girl that gets a thrill from humiliating videos and uses drugs and disrespects her parents and climbs the social ladder with sharpened claws. She doesn't want to be _Maxine_.  
  
All she really wants to do is go to Chloe and hold her atrophied hands gently and tell her— tell her she loves her. She wants to go back and tell _her_ Chloe the same thing. She wants to say she's sorry.  
  
Tears well up and splash down onto her phone, and then a call from Victoria comes through, Max picks it up this time. She sniffles and sucks back the knot in her throat.  
  
"Max!" Victoria yelps, sounding both surprised and happy that she's picked up. "Oh, please tell me you're okay!"  
  
"I'm fine," she says, drawing a shuddering breath, even though she's not, and she's not sure if she can be again.  
  
"Where are you? What happened?" Victoria's voice is loud and muffled, as if she's pressing her mouth right to the speaker like a kiss.  
  
"Can you pick me up?" is all Max asks, dully. "I'm at the bus depot."  
  
There's a pause, and Victoria's voice softens. "Yeah, of course. I'll borrow Nathan's truck. I'll be right there, okay?"  
  
"Mmn."  
  
Max lowers the phone to hang it up. Before she does, she hears Victoria's voice, distant: "Take ca—"  
  
_CALL ENDED,_ her phone says, cheerfully.  
  
Victoria pulls up twenty minutes later— fast, given the distance. She looks a little bit absurd in the driver's seat of Nathan's truck, lithe and delicate with the huge steering wheel in her hands. She's already dressed for the party with makeup that looks fresh and an outfit Max has never seen her wear before. She's looking right at her as Max climbs in. As she does up her seat belt, Victoria reaches across the console and touches her behind the elbow.  
  
"So, I'm going to skip it, too," she says softly. She seems expectant, like she really wants Max to look her in the eyes; when she doesn't, she settles back and gets the truck started again to pull a U-turn. "I don't want to go to the party if you're not there. I told Nathan to text me about the Everyday Heroes contest winner... I really think it's going to be you. That, or me. Do you think it'll end our relationship?" She adds this last part on in a forced, joking way, a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.  
  
Max stares out of the window. "I'm going," she says quietly.  
  
"Huh?" Victoria looks over at her briefly, startled, before flicking her eyes back to the road.  
  
"I'm going to the party," says Max, who has come to realize one thing: on a path of dead ends, the opportunity to investigate the inner circle she is now a part of may be the only thing that she can do now.  
  
"Are... you sure?" Victoria asks cautiously.  
  
"I'm sure," says Max, and to her own surprise, her voice hardens. With a goal forming in her noise-wracked head, a direction to pursue, maybe she can still do this. Even if this isn't her world. Even if it's not her timeline ( _but it is_ ).  
  
Especially because the storm is still coming.

  
  
 

The music that seems to thud out of every single tile on the floor and speck of paint on the wall makes it nearly impossible for Max to hear her own thoughts on top of the static rolling non-stop in her head. She's been in the VIP section for an hour, and she's cold sober among everyone else's inebriation, but she feels just as dizzy as the rest of them look. Victoria won't leave her side, her arms tightly wound around one of hers. They sit together on one of the couches, and while Max has a feeling that part of Victoria wants to be dancing or gossiping or even swimming, she finds herself appreciating her presence at her side. Against her better judgment, she's starting to see how, in this world, Maxine Caulfield might have liked her.  
  
_End of the World Party_ , the posters all say. She believes it.  
  
It's here, among her peers, that Max learns just how she fits into things in the Vortex Club. What she's gleaned from text messages doesn't quite compare to being among the others here. It's bizarre— she knows them all, or at least she thinks she had, once. This is completely different, though. Hayden is flirtatious with her, although Victoria tempers that with her presence alone. Taylor seems to be avoiding her, for some reason, and when Victoria isn't looking, her eyes are cold. Courtney, on the other hand, is bubbly and gushing towards her, chattering like a cheerful little bird in her ear at every given opportunity. Dana is polite if distant; there's none of the usual camaraderie.  
  
But it's still Nathan who is the most different. He settles down beside her, heavy on the couch, when Victoria gets up to excuse herself to the washroom briefly. Something in her head tells her that he's rolling, even though Max is certain that she's never seen anyone on ecstasy before to know for sure. She doesn't need to think twice, however, to know that it's _Maxine_ who remembers.  
  
Nathan is loose and anxious, and he's somewhat sweaty. He doesn't look like someone that's having fun at a party. "Hey," he says, after the silence stretches on too long.  
  
Max can't stand to look at him. She stares at her sneakers. "Hi," she says finally, stiffly, reminding herself of why she came here. As much as she would rather be anywhere else but sitting next to Nathan Prescott, he's her best chance at the truth right now.  
  
"You're going to win," Nathan blurts out.  
  
Of all the things he could have said, that's the last thing Max has expected, and it's enough to make her raise her head and look at him. Nathan's tapping his hands against his knees, bouncing one leg.  
  
"Your photo," he adds, rapidly. "Your photo. It's the best one. You'll win. I've got money on it." This last part, presumably a joke by the way he smiles, falls totally flat in the face of his stammering.  
  
Something roils inside of Max's chest, surging up towards her throat. She twists her hands together. "Nathan," she says quietly, "what made you and Victoria decide to let me into the Vortex Club?"  
  
Nathan gives her a strange look, then he says, twitching his shoulders in something like a shrug, or hopelessness, "You've got talent. Lots of it. Style. Victoria and I aren't stupid. It was take you in and make you ours or go against you. We made the easy choice. Power's everything at Black-hell." He flicks his eyes around the room, looking from Hayden to Zachary to Juliet and beyond.  
  
That answer makes her wonder what might have happened in her own world had she chosen to play her cards differently. She wonders just what facets of Maxine's personality shifted enough to the right or the left to establish a line between hipster outcast and stylish royalty. She supposes she'll never know. The only thing she can be certain of is that Maxine is the kind of person to condone Kate's viral video, and that makes her someone Max never wants to be, regardless of how loved she is by others.  
  
She tightens her hands into fists on her thighs. "We're not in trouble for Kate's video, are we?"  
  
"No," says Nathan, quickly. He waves a hand. "I got it. We don't need to worry about it."  
  
Anger, insidious and hot, begins to throb in her head, off beat with both the music and the noise in her mind. "What did you give her?" Max asks, and her voice cracks, softening the latter half of the question.  
  
"What?" Nathan leans over towards her, trying to hear the question.  
  
"What did you—"  
  
Max is drowned out by a screeching sound. At first, she thinks it's her headache worsening, before she realizes that it's the sound system. Mr. Jefferson's voice then cuts through, larger than life. "Okay, everybody. Calm down." From the VIP section, she has a perfect backstage view of him on the platform, mic in hand. There's cheering and hollering and heckling; Victoria emerges from the washroom and heads back towards the couch Max and Nathan are on as Mr. Jefferson continues his speech.  
  
"Thank you, thank you... I appreciate it." He's confident and charismatic behind the microphone, and Max is as transfixed as the rest of them. "I don't want to get in the way of the party, but it's time to announce the winner of the Everyday Heroes contest. Before I do, I want to thank everybody who entered their photograph..."  
  
Victoria settles down next to her and turns to her with a smile. She reaches out to take both of Max's hands into hers and squeezes them. "Good luck, princess," she says in a voice so genuinely sweet and tender that Max can hardly believe that it belongs to Victoria Chase at all.  
  
"You too," she says numbly. The sense of unreality that's been haunting her for the past day worsens.  
  
"Now," continues Mr. Jefferson, "this is the most important step in being an artist— sharing your work with the world. All of you represent Blackwell Academy, and everything our school stands for. As far as I'm concerned, you're all Everyday Heroes."  
  
This comment incites a new round of cheering. Mr. Jefferson turns towards the DJ. "The envelope, please." He doesn't let the moment linger— doesn't take advantage of the dramatic tension the way Max expects him to. The moment he has the envelope, he says, "And the winner is... I'm very pleased to say... Maxine Caulfield."  
  
The hall erupts in cheering. Next to her, Victoria throws her arms around her. Hayden and Logan and Courtney come rushing over to the couch, shouting excitedly, all of them tripping over one another. Max is being pulled in a dozen different directions by hands tugging her towards the stage. Victoria's grip is the surest of all. They usher her up the stairs.  
  
Before she ascends, Max looks back over her shoulder. Nathan is still on the couch, sitting there all alone. He's not clapping. He's expressionless.  
  
Her mind goes blank. She's being handed the pieces to a puzzle she can't put together, because she's missing half the box.  
  
There's another shove, and Max finds herself with a microphone in her hands. Mr. Jefferson is smiling warmly at her. The stage lights are hot. She feels sick and dizzy. She stares out at the pool, at everyone who's cheering for her and encouraging her, expecting her to say something.  
  
"Thank you," she whispers into the microphone, and then she lowers it for a moment, before she says, stronger, "this is for Kate Marsh."  
  
The cheering slows, as if confused, before renewing again. Max turns to Mr. Jefferson, who is holding his hand out for the microphone. She drops it against his palm and turns to climb off the stage. She barely hears what Mr. Jefferson is saying as his closing speech.  
  
Victoria catches her in a crushing hug the moment she steps off of the stage. Max goes slack against her, too weary to resist it. Victoria coos in her ear, tells her that she's proud of her, that she's going to be something huge, that she's mad jealous, but it's okay because it's Max and she's so excited for her. The congratulations from her Vortex Club friends pour in.  
  
Mr. Jefferson stops by on his way out, catching her attention when he presses his fingertips to her shoulder. "Can I have a moment?" he asks.  
  
Max looks at her peers, mostly at Victoria, who makes a brushing motion with her hands. She steps aside, into the shadows, with her teacher. She can't bring herself to meet his eyes.  
  
"Are you feeling better?" is the first thing he asks. "The way you left my classroom today... Well, it was alarming. I hear you spent some time in the nurse's office. That's good."  
  
She nods, pressing her tongue up to the back of her teeth, and finally says, "I'm fine. Thank you for asking."  
  
"Well, congratulations," he says kindly. Max forces herself to look up at him. She knows she's been aching for a moment like this, a chance to hear unfiltered praise from one of her idols. It's the second time in one day, and it's still not easy to swallow. "I hope you're looking forward to the experience in San Francisco. This will do amazing things for your career, Maxine. I'm sure of it. This is only the beginning."  
  
He holds his hand out to her. Max stares down at it before realizing what she's supposed to do. She lays her hand in his, limply. He seems not to notice; he clasps it. His grip is gentle.  
  
"However, we can discuss that tomorrow," he says, letting go. "I'm sure you've all got more partying to do, and this isn't exactly my scene." He laughs, as charming as ever. Maybe she'd have blushed to hear it on another day. "I'll be seeing you."  
  
She watches him go. She stands there, mute, until Victoria comes back over and tells her that they're all ready to leave.

  
  
 

Victoria insists on heading back to her room, where she rolls a joint and pops open a window and somehow expects Max to want the first hit, or any hit, for that matter. She declines, sitting on the edge of Victoria's bed. This room isn't as different as her own had been. In fact, it's nearly the same as the one she remembers sneaking into in her own timeline.  
  
The weed makes Victoria both more languid and more excitable, and she's leaning up against Max with her arms around her, head on her shoulder. "Stay here tonight," she insists, murmuring into Max's ear. Her voice quiets the noise, a little, or maybe Max is so tired that she's stopped listening to it.  
  
_I can't,_ she wants to say, but part of her _does_ , and she doesn't think it's just Maxine. Victoria's warm, and she's comfortable, and despite how lost she feels in this timeline, she seems to be one of the only sincere things in it. There's a sense of security in that, and Max is starving for it. Desperate for it. Victoria is unfamiliar to her here, but she's steady. She's solid. She's real.  
  
So when Victoria's mouth lowers to hers and her lips press against hers like a question, Max answers, and she leans into it.  
  
She's never kissed someone like this before. She'd kissed Chloe for just a moment, and she'd thought about kissing her like _this_ immediately afterward, and later, and all throughout the day. Had that only been yesterday? Max can hardly believe it.  
  
Victoria smells sweet, and she's astonishingly gentle. Her kisses make patterns down Max's throat and on her shoulders, like she already knows every sensitive spot there, like she's trying to give her one kiss for every freckle. She's slow in a way that makes Max burn for more and forget everything else that's happening, her loss of powers, that she doesn't belong here, the fact that she's lost in time and might not belong anywhere any more. She forgets about her vision of the storm and about Kate and about... about...  
  
No, she can't forget Chloe. No matter what, she can't forget Chloe. Even when she's pressing her bare body to Victoria's and their hands are roaming against one another, she can't forget Chloe. It's that that has Max stopping short of venturing any further, even when they're both nude and Victoria's hand is slipping up her thigh and her lips are sealed over one of her nipples. It feels good — it feels so good — but she can't lose herself like this. She's not ( _she is_ ) Maxine.  
  
"Not tonight," she whispers, and Victoria goes still immediately and eases back.  
  
"That's fine," Victoria says quietly. "Are you still not feeling good?" She lifts a hand to press it against Max's forehead as if checking for fever. There's something vulnerable about her sitting up in the moonlight like this, her hair tousled, lips red and wet. But mostly it's in her dark grey eyes. How utterly raw and open they are, looking deep inside of her like she wants to be the answer to all of her problems and all of her prayers.  
  
Max comes to see how she could have fallen in love with Victoria Chase. How she _did_ fall in love with Victoria Chase.  
  
"Yeah," she mumbles, looking down. "Not feeling good."  
  
"Lay down," says Victoria, grasping the blankets to haul them aside and fluffing up one of the pillows. She holds a hand out to Max, giving her a small, encouraging smile that Max doesn't have the heart to return.  
  
She needs some air.  
  
"I'm going to close the window," says Max, and she climbs out of bed to do so. For a moment she stands at the window, just breathing deep, and then she leans in to grab at it and slide it down, but something catches her eye. It's hard to see in the darkness, a barely visible shadow in the treeline. She has to shield her eyes from the moonlight and stare, hard, to confirm what it is.  
  
A doe. It turns its head and Max thinks it's looking right at her, but the moment it does, it gives a twitch and takes off running into the trees.  
  
It doesn't occur to her until later, when she's beneath the blankets with her cheek pressed to Victoria's collarbone, that she realizes that even though it had gone charging into it, the doe hadn't disturbed any of the brush.

  
  
 

The sun doesn't rise that morning.  
  
It's not that she's woken up too early. It's that the sun just doesn't come up. She wakes up before Victoria, and when she finds that the room is still pitch black, she grabs for her phone off the floor and checks for the time, thinking that she should get to her own dorm and try to sleep a little more before resuming her investigation.  
  
_9:10 AM,_ says her phone. Max stares at it, confused, before she sets it aside and checks Victoria's phone, too. _9:10 AM,_.  
  
Something tells her the time isn't wrong. She gets out of bed carefully, trying not to disturb Victoria, and pulls her clothes back on as quietly as she can. She lingers at the door, wondering what to do, before she decides to leave Victoria a note.  
  
_Visiting nurse again. Don't worry about me. Maxoxo_  
  
It seems strange to sign off that way, but it also seems strange not to. She leaves the note on Victoria's desk and hurries down the hall. She finds the dormitory deserted, but out on the grounds, there are students milling about everywhere, and all of them are looking up into the sky, clearly as confused as she is.  
  
"I'm _checking_ the dumb weather channel website, Courtney, ugh! Stop _nagging._ You know I've got the hangover of my life, right?" Taylor is snapping, scrolling through her phone. When Max walks by, she calls out to her. "Hey, Max! You're pretty nerdy... Wanna solve this one?"  
  
Max looks up into the sky and catches the moon's rays on her face. She shakes her head. "I don't know," she says, even though she has a feeling. There's a steadily building sensation of dread churning in her stomach. She draws out her phone, like the others, and tries to search for information. She doesn't find anything. Whatever it is, it's confined to Arcadia Bay. That makes perfect sense.  
  
She pauses when she sees that she has a new message, and she opens it. It says it's from Chloe. It's time stamped _3:47 AM_.  
  
_Maxine,  
Chloe's taken a turn for the worse. We're not entirely sure of her status right now. We'll be in touch.  
Joyce_  
  
The world comes to a stop.  
  
For the past day and a half, time has made its oppressive grind forward, and Max has been helpless against its pull. But right now she's locked in it, suffocating in it, choking on it. She's moving before anyone else has a chance to catch her attention, brushing past Taylor and Courtney, bolting away from Principal Wells and Ms. Grant who are watching the sky with as much worry and confusion as everyone else, moving swiftly beyond the school grounds, the moon's eye heavy on her all the while.  
  
Even though the world has come to a stop and the sun hasn't risen, the bus is still running. She doesn't look David in the eye when she climbs aboard, partly because she's ashamed and partly because she can't see much beyond the black haze in her vision anyway.  
  
When the bus pulls up to the stop by Chloe's house, she goes running off of it, feet pounding the aisle so hard that the whole bus shakes. She goes running up the walkway and onto the steps. Max launches herself at the door and wrenches it open, forgetting that, typically, she's supposed to knock first. But it opens easily, and she goes crashing in, shouting thickly, "Chloe!"  
  
There's a sound from the kitchen. Max heads for it. She finds Joyce there, piling things into a duffel bag. She looks unsurprised to see Max bursting into her home. Her face is pale and weary and very, very sad. "Maxine," she says. "I have to say, I was more expecting a phone call..."  
  
"Where's Chloe?!" Max sobs, too scared to be polite.  
  
Joyce seems to understand. "She's in the hospital, Max," she says quietly. "William's with her. I'm about to leave, as well." There's a pause. "It's not looking good. The doctors told me that one more infection could kill her, and..." She trails off here, her voice hitching. Her deep set eyes flood with abrupt tears, and she coughs, turning away from Max and reaching for a roll of paper towels.  
  
Max steps forward and flings her arms around Joyce Price, who is really like her own mother. Who _is_ her own mother here in Arcadia Bay, a mother she loves with her whole heart. Who never deserved to suffer like this, to see her only daughter waste away. Again, Max tells herself: _This is my fault. All of this is my fault._ Joyce hugs her back just as tightly, and for several long, long minutes they rock against one another, bound by a love for Chloe.  
  
She has to undo this. She _has_ to.  
  
_The photo..._  
  
If only she could find the photo. Maybe she can summon up the very last remnant of her powers, if only she could push hard enough. She breaks away from Joyce, reaching up to rub her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Joyce, you need to go be with Chloe and William," she says softly, with as much strength as she can manage.  
  
"I know. And you've got school... But if you'd stop by after class, I'd... I know Chloe would—"  
  
"Of _course_ ," says Max vehemently. She's never meant any promise more than she means this one. She truly does, even if, at the same time, she's thinking of nothing but finding that photo and fixing all of this. She gives Joyce another brief hug. "Do you mind if I— Chloe has... has a photo, of the two of us, and it might be nice to bring it to her..."  
  
"You go ahead and have a look," says Joyce immediately. "Just go out the garage, so you can lock up."  
  
"Thank you, Joyce," says Max as firmly as she can muster. She sucks back her tears and takes a step back.  
  
Joyce heaves a deep, weary sigh. "That moon still up in the sky... It's almost like the world's coming to an end," she says as she heads down the hallway, hauling the bag up onto her shoulder. "Mine might be."  
  
Max sets off for Chloe's room. She braces herself for finding it empty, but it doesn't really soften the blow. There's an imprint in the bed where Chloe is supposed to be. The room smells like her. And the photo album... The photo album is still there. On the floor.  
  
She kneels to pick it up and starts combing through it, flipping page after page after page, looking desperately for the photo that will take her away from this world. She finds the blank spot where it is usually supposed to be, and she looks around it and at all of the other pages, but it's not there. Max gives the book a second look and then turns her attention to the rest of the room. She tries the drawer where she first found the album. She tries the bins stacked against the wall. She tries the shelves and cabinets. When turning the room inside out doesn't yield any results, Max recalls all of the storage boxes in Chloe's— in the upstairs bedroom, and she goes running up the stairs.  
  
Boxes labeled _toys_ and _clothes_ and _misc_ offer nothing. Max goes through files and bills and letters. She shakes out coats and flips through the pages of books, hoping to find the photo wedged in there, a forgotten bookmark. She spreads everything out on the floor and crawls through it all like an animal hunting for a meal.  
  
She comes up with nothing.  
  
Eventually, she accepts what she already knows: that she won't be finding the photo. It had gone the moment she'd tried to use it. It had disappeared with... _With the other Max,_ she thinks.  
  
The other Max? Then who is she? If she's not Maxine, and she isn't Max, then who?

  
  
 

The sky is as dark as ink on the journey back to Blackwell. It's nearing 11:00 AM, and there's no sign of the sun yet.  
  
Max has a feeling that it will never come.  
  
There's a light rain outside, coming down from clouds that are moving in so fast that she can see them drifting. By the time she gets to Blackwell, the rain has gone from a mist to a drizzle. She expects that it's going to get worse.  
  
She's thinking about Chloe. About all of the things she should have said to her. In this timeline. In the other one. In any timeline. Maybe it doesn't matter when, or how, or why. She should have said it all to her when she had the chance. She'd taken her excess of time for granted.  
  
But she thinks she knows what to do. At least right now she does. There's a storm coming, and she has to make it to the hospital before it arrives.  
  
She doesn't have her Language of Photography class or the photo lab on Fridays, but she knows Mr. Jefferson has other classes, and as the first period comes to an end, she slips into his classroom. He seems surprised to see her. "Max," he greets, shuffling the papers on his desk. "What brings you here on the only day you don't have a class with me?"  
  
"I," she starts, swallowing. "Mr. Jefferson, I don't think I can go to San Francisco."  
  
There is silence, at first. The rain outside begins to rumble softly. "Come," says Mr. Jefferson finally. "Let's have a chat about this." He puts the papers away and picks up the camera that's resting on the side of the desk, hooking the strap around his neck. "We can take a walk and talk this out," he suggests. His tone is soft and understanding.  
  
"Okay," Max says, feeling exhausted, and she twists her hands around the strap of her bag and waits for him to lead the way.  
  
Mr. Jefferson makes strides so long that it takes two of hers to keep up. "Can you believe it's still dark out?" he starts conversationally. "I mean, it's not unheard of... in remote parts of the world. But in Arcadia Bay? Unbelievable. It defies logic. Something inexplicable is happening."  
  
Max nods mutely.  
  
"What's going on with you, Max? You've been a little inexplicable, yourself."  
  
"I can't go on the trip." Max shakes her head, over and over. "My friend... My _best_ friend... She's sick. She's really sick. She's in the hospital. I don't know what's going to happen to her. But I can't just leave. Not with Chloe like this..." She feels the familiar tremble in her throat, and she stops talking there, not wanting to cry in front of her teacher.  
  
"I see." Mr. Jefferson's voice is pitying. Like he's pained for her. He's considerate enough to allow her some silence, and he seems comfortable to let it linger. It's soothing, in a way, to just walk at his side like she's his equal without having to say anything. They exit the building and stroll down the path leading out to the grounds. Mr. Jefferson's gaze is focused straight ahead.  
  
Out in the darkness, their walk feels a little unusual. Max almost has a sense of that moment she and Chloe had spied on Victoria trying to blackmail Mr. Jefferson— a moment between a student and a teacher under cover of darkness, lending it a vaguely illicit feeling. But here, beneath the rain, at what really is early afternoon despite the black sky, she feels clean, and her head is quiet.  
  
Maybe it's the fact that it's so dark and rainy that barely anyone is outside. Max isn't paying attention to where she is being led, too lost in her own head to care. It's the sound of a truck pulling in that makes her realize that they're in the parking lot. She looks and sees that Mr. Jefferson's car is in the same spot she saw it yesterday. He must be finished with classes for the day. She readies to excuse herself, her eyes flicking over to the truck as its engine cuts out.  
  
Nathan Prescott climbs out. He looks over towards her. Their eyes meet for a second, and then he's bowing his head against the rain and heading towards the campus.  
  
Max looks back towards Mr. Jefferson. "I really, _really_ appreciate the opportunity," she says, and she truly means it from the bottom of her heart. "It's honestly amazing. I've never won anything before, especially not something this big. But... I can't." She lowers her gaze, ashamed to be throwing this gift back into his face when he had pushed so hard for her to have it in the first place.  
  
But the silence goes on for so long that she looks up at him, afraid that she's disappointed him so much that he can't even bring himself to chastise her.  
  
"I understand," says Mr. Jefferson, and Max breaks out into a smile.  
  
She's still smiling when he plunges the syringe into her neck. The pain is instantaneous, a burning that seems to shred through every muscle fiber and into every vein, flooding every single thing beneath her skin and outside of it. It sears her throat and blinds her. It stains her world red and makes his face swim before her. Max's mouth opens to scream, but it's soundless, and within seconds, she's fading.  
  
His arms reach out to catch her, cradling her like she's something exquisite and irreplaceable. Every moment feels like it stretches on for years. Max's head lolls, and she tries to speak, struggling to rasp out something, _anything_. Jefferson's unsympathetic face is the only thing she can focus on.  
  
At least until another face appears next to it, looking down at her.  
  
Nathan's.  
  
The last thing Max hears is Jefferson finishing his sentence: "But that doesn't mean I care."

  
  
 

The room is white again.  
  
At first, she thinks it's the nurse's office once more— that maybe she's engaged her powers again and launched herself back to a point she hadn't intended for. Her head hurts so much that she thinks she might die this time, _really_ die, but the thought of that is enough to put the strength back into her body; she just has to get up, and—  
  
She can't move. Max forces her eyes open the rest of the way. It's so bright in the room that she can't see anything at first, but then the brightness is diluted by the stark contrasts of the room. A black couch. A black tripod.  
  
The black tape on her wrists.  
  
It all comes back to her then. Walking with Jefferson. Alone in the dark. The syringe. His cold face looking dispassionately down at her. Max tries to repress the panic. She can hear footsteps. She goes still and closes her eyes, but not all the way. She keeps them open just enough to try to see who it is.  
  
Nathan's moving past the couch. He's pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and all Max can think, with sudden clarity, is _Rachel in the dark room, Rachel in the dark room, Rachel in the dark room, Rachel in the dark room, Rachel in the dark room..._  
  
Jefferson is standing with his back to her. He's got a cabinet open, and it's full of red binders. Max thinks she can make out names on them. _AshleyMeganAlexis_... _LynnKellyRachel_...  
  
_Rachel_...  
  
She gasps, despite herself. The sound croaks out of her, broken and miserable, as the pieces all come crashing together. At the sound of it, Nathan stops his pacing, and Jefferson looks back over his shoulder at her.  
  
"You're awake," he says with a vague smile. "That's not good." Then he's looking over at Nathan, the smile fading. He gives a jerk of his chin. Whatever it means, Nathan's in a hurry to do it, because he's stumbling over to the cart pushed up against the wall. While he does that, Jefferson comes strolling over, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.  
  
She barely recognizes him. It's not that anything's changed about his appearance. He's still wearing the same clothes, the same glasses. He's still got the same carefully trimmed facial hair. But he's unrecognizable like this, looking down at her indulgently.  
  
Everything makes sense now.  
  
Max closes her eyes against the miasma that she now knows is going to consume her. She can't undo this, but maybe— maybe this isn't a world worth undoing. Maybe Maxine isn't a person who deserves a reset. Maybe she's someone beyond saving.  
  
Maybe all of this has been hopeless from the beginning.  
  
As Jefferson's hand cups her chin and he readies the second syringe, Max — Maxine — finds herself wishing her other self, the one that had escaped this timeline, better luck than she has had. Maybe somewhere out there is a universe worth saving, but it's not this one.  
  
_Chloe,_ she thinks, _Forgive me_.  
  
The second puncture doesn't hurt as much as the first.

  
  
 

In another world, in another vault, a storm rages outside.  
  
"Please," Max sobs. "Don't do this."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr [here](http://mjrrgr.tumblr.com), if you'd like. 
> 
> Comments, critique, questions— all are encouraged and appreciated.


End file.
